


I Know

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A tint of angst, But mostly cute, First Kiss, Fluff, Greg sleeps naked, M/M, Mentions of off-screen child death, Mentions of off-screen homicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The little girl had barely been two, and her father had decided to throw her in the Thames when her Mum got a new boyfriend and had left him. Two. Two years old. A precious little life, thrown away due to the stupidity of an adult tasked with taking care of it. Greg thumped a fist against the door, anger manifesting as frustration. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. He had stopped crying long ago. His fingers uncurled, and he laid his palm flat against the wood. Normally he would get drunk, blank everything out, but he had to be to work in a few hours and it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t.</p>
<p>He allowed himself one slow inhale, one slow exhale. Fought to get himself under control. Eventually his trembling lessened, became shivering, caused by cold instead of anger. He straightened up, turned around. And froze.</p>
<p>Sherlock was standing near the entrance to his kitchen, eyes slightly narrowed, and obviously tracking Greg’s every move. “Fuck - bloody hell, Sherlock, how the fuck did you get in here?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know

**Author's Note:**

> Saw a case in the news this morning of a Dad being tried for throwing his 2-yo daughter off a bridge, and it 'inspired' this, if you could call it that.
> 
> Feel free to prompt me with more Minor Pairs prompts at my [prompt blog!](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com)

Greg stepped wearily up the stairs to his flat, trying to draw the last bit of warmth from his coat. It was doing a shitty job of repelling the rain, and after his day - night? at work, all he wanted to do was get naked, dry off, and crawl under the duvet and pretend that it never happened. He checked his watch and groaned. Then he had to be up in five hours and do it again. Fuck. At least he had the day after off. That would be what kept him going - that and a bunch of shitty coffee.

His shaking hand slid the key in the lock, and he swiftly opened the door and shoved it open, ignoring the chattering of his teeth. It was bloody cold in his flat, which meant the heat was out again. Great. Shitty landlord. Everything was going to hell. “Fuck,” Greg swore, his temper flaring. He kicked the stand by the door, ignoring the burst of pain, and then slammed down his keys and his wallet. His jacket was next, thrown over the kitchen chair, and he ignored how wet it would be. He slammed the door and locked it, slumping slightly, his forehead resting against the cheap wood. “Fuck,” he said again, quieter this time.

The little girl had barely been two, and her father had decided to throw her in the Thames when her Mum got a new boyfriend and had left him. Two. Two years old. A precious little life, thrown away due to the stupidity of an adult tasked with taking care of it. Greg thumped a fist against the door, anger manifesting as frustration. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. He had stopped crying long ago. His fingers uncurled, and he laid his palm flat against the wood. Normally he would get drunk, blank everything out, but he had to be to work in a few hours and it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t.

He allowed himself one slow inhale, one slow exhale. Fought to get himself under control. Eventually his trembling lessened, became shivering, caused by cold instead of anger. He straightened up, turned around. And froze.

Sherlock was standing near the entrance to his kitchen, eyes slightly narrowed, and obviously tracking Greg’s every move. “Fuck - bloody hell, Sherlock, how the fuck did you get in here?”

“Your lock is not very secure,” Sherlock said absently, looking Greg up and down. Greg fought the urge to cover himself from Sherlock’s scrutiny.

“Just. Please, go away. I can’t deal with you right now.” Greg ran a hand through his hair, exhaustion setting in. Tea. He could do with a cuppa, just to warm him up, and then he would go to bed.

“Here.” Sherlock pushed a mug of tea, still faintly steaming, into Greg’s hands.

Greg looked from the tea to Sherlock. He was too tired to be suspicious, and took a long drink of the tea before lowering it and eyeing the taller man. “Did you put something in this?”

“No.” Sherlock looked vaguely affronted at the idea, and Greg shook his head. The warmth was seeping through his bones, warming him up, and he held the mug with both hands, trying to draw as much heat from it as he could.

“Why are you here, then?” Greg asked, once it became obvious Sherlock was content to stand there in silence and stare at Greg as he drank the tea.

“I needed the file for the Evans case,” Sherlock said quietly. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Greg frowned, not sure if he had ever heard Sherlock use that tone before, or say that something case-related didn’t matter. He looked the other man over, checking for any signs that he might be intoxicated or otherwise compromised. There were none. “Are you sick?”

“Finish your tea,” Sherlock said instead, taking off his jacket and hanging it by the door. He moved to pick up Greg’s sopping one, taking it into the small bathroom and hanging it on the tub so it didn’t soak the floor. “The child in the Thames. That was one of your cases.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and Greg felt like he had just been punched in the stomach.

“Yeah.” He drained the last of the tea, although his body tried to fight it. It felt like he was going to throw up. “We arrested the father.”

“Good.” Sherlock stepped closer, took the mug from Greg’s hands and walked into the kitchen, placing it in the sink.

“Sherlock,” Greg tried again. The consulting detective shifted slightly, looking over his shoulder while he cleaned the mug. “What are you doing?” Why are you in my flat? Why are you doing the dishes? Greg had so many more questions, but he figured he would start with one. The rest could wait.

Sherlock turned away, his attention apparently back on the dish he was cleaning. Greg sighed. Great. He was being ignored. “You do an abysmal job at caring for yourself,” Sherlock said, his voice low enough that Greg barely heard it. There was a pause, like Sherlock wanted to say more, but Greg saw him shake his head slightly, and nothing more was said.

This wasn’t something Greg had ever anticipated. Was it sentiment? Obligation? Had John pushed him to do it? He stood there, staring at Sherlock’s back as the consulting detective washed, rinsed, and dried the mug, placing it back where it came from. “Does John know you can do that?” Greg asked suspiciously.

Sherlock turned, and the corner of his lips lifted up in a faint smile. “No.”

“I’ll keep it a secret, then,” Greg mused, arms by his side as they stood and stared at each other, an uneasy truce. It wasn’t awkward, necessarily. It was almost comfortable, standing and feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, inclining his head.

“Are you sure you’re not sick?” Greg asked suspiciously.

“You need to dry off.” Sherlock stepped forward, carefully telegraphing his movements, until he clasped Greg by the wrist and walked him towards the small bedroom. He rummaged through Greg’s drawers until he pulled out a rarely-worn, but clean, pair of pyjamas. “Here.”

Greg stared at the pyjamas, and then at Sherlock. “Why are you here?” he repeated, hopeful to actually get an answer.

“I told you,” Sherlock said, pulling a couple towels from the cupboard and adding them to the pile. “I needed the case file.”

“I know that’s why you were here,” Greg clarified. “What I want to know is why you stayed.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock dismissed the question with a slight shake of his head. “You are going to catch a cold if you do not change.”

Greg studied him for a few moments, watching the way his eyes didn’t flicker but instead returned the calm, steady gaze. There was something - soft about him, something different than his usual clinical attention. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he liked it. Sherlock looked so much younger, like he was vulnerable, not haunted by the demons of long ago. With a comfort built up of years changing with his sports mates, Greg stripped off his damp shirt and tossed it aside, picking up one of the towels and starting to pat himself dry.

He looked up and blinked. Sherlock was standing much closer than he had been, a hand reaching to pick up the discarded shirt. He was trying to focus on Greg’s face, but every few seconds his gaze would flicker down to Greg’s bare chest. Oh. Greg carefully kept his face blank, as if he hadn’t noticed anything, and allowed Sherlock to pick up the shirt and scuttle back to the wardrobe. He bent down and stripped off his trousers and pants, shucking them aside, shivering as the cool air hit his bare skin.

Greg dried himself off quickly and pulled on the clean pair of pants. He could barely keep his eyes open, and he straightened up and turned to look at Sherlock. It wasn’t nearly as surprising finding Sherlock just within the boundaries of his personal space this time. Greg instead offered him a tired smile. “I have to get back to work in six hours, Sherlock. I would like some sleep between now and then.” For all the words sounded like a scold, Greg delivered them in a matter-of-fact tone.

Sherlock hesitated, and for a second, his face looked torn between two courses of action. Greg watched the debate play out on his face, the way his eyes flickered, the way his lips tightened and relaxed. For all that he was guarded from day to day, this was a vulnerable situation for him, and everything he thought showed on his face. Finally, he seemed to make a decision, and Greg waited, his eyes locked onto Sherlock’s. Sherlock lifted a hand, cupped the side of Greg’s face, tilting his head slightly, settled the other hand on Greg’s waist.

Greg had all of three seconds to be surprised before Sherlock’s lips claimed his. The kiss was soft and sweet, nothing like Greg had imagined kissing Sherlock would be. He had figured Sherlock would be rigid and precise, more skill than sweetness, with too much pressure and a desire to maintain control. Instead, Sherlock gave it up when Greg leaned into him, mouths opening mutually as the kiss turned heated. Greg led, and Sherlock followed.

They broke apart after a minute, Sherlock’s cheeks flushed an adorable red. Greg kissed him again, gently. “Hello,” he murmured, and Sherlock tilted his head so their foreheads touched.

“I didn’t actually need the file,” Sherlock admitted.

“I know.” Greg smiled.

“I wanted to see you.”

“I know.”

“I want to stay.”

“It’s going to be rather cold,” Greg said doubtfully. Sherlock shrugged, already walking to Greg’s wardrobe and pulling out a second set of pyjamas. “And I sleep naked.”

Sherlock’s grin was positively wicked. “I know.”


End file.
